Catching Barn Doors on Kodiak

Does July in the Ozarks with 92°F with 90% relative humidity make you long for the cool days and cooler nights of November, like it does me? Would the most majestic outdoor scenery on earth coupled with world class halibut and salmon fishing excite you to your very core? Would sailing through a cool, heavy mist, as you ventured along vast, timbered, and mountainous rocky coastlines provide you with a great thrill, reminiscent of primeval Viking explorers of old? If so, a fishing trip to Kodiak Island, Alaska might be the place for your next outdoor adventure.

Kodiak Island is just 25 miles off the southwestern coast of Alaska across the Shelikof Strait; however, to get there by water, due to the vastness and low population density of our largest state, it is a 130 mile, 10 hour ferry ride from the nearest port of Homer, Alaska. At 3,588 square miles, the island is the second largest island in the United States behind Hawaii (Missouri’s largest county, Texas County, is 1,179 square miles by comparison). The annual average precipitation is a little more on Kodiak than in Missouri – 75 inches per year verses just 43 inches. Yes, it’s cooler and wetter but there aren’t any barn doors to be found here in the Ozarks - monstrous swimming barn doors that is.

Around Kodiak Island, giant halibut, commonly known as barn doors, lurk in the depths. These giants have been known to reach 500+ pounds in the right places. And, you don’t just find the holes that hold these behemoths by accident. An experienced captain and crew could be worth their weight in gold if they put you on the right fish. Halibut fishing derbies pay many thousands of dollars for the largest catch of the year, but you have to purchase a derby ticket to qualify. The 2009 Homer Halibut Derby winner caught a 354 pound barn door and won $40,440.00! That would pay for a lot of fishing and hunting trips!



Last year our friends, Captain Mel and Alana Roe, along with first mate Zach Miller, at Kodiak Island Adventures took us out away from the tourist-trap ‘chicken holes’ to the spots where the monsters swim. Before leaving the bay at Kodiak we dropped lines to catch our bait – herring the size of average trout from a Missouri trout park. In 15 minutes we had enough herring for 7 fishermen to fish all day. After a beautiful boat ride up the coast of Kodiak Island on the nicely furnished 40 foot Lana J we began fishing and immediately and consistently caught 40 to 60 pound halibut all day with the chance to hook a giant $40,000.00 fish with every cast. Captain Mel and Zach worked at a feverish pace retrieving our catch and keeping our lines baited and in the water. Fishing at approximately 90 feet we would drop our lines just above the bottom and let them bob up and down with the motion of the boat. It generally wasn’t more than a few minutes and sometimes just seconds before you had on another 50 pound fish! And let me tell you, after several hours of pulling up 50 pounders from 90 feet, one right after another, it’s almost agonizing to try to bring up another fish but you are always anticipating the jackpot. Of course, money-fish or not, we had hit the jackpot. We were fishing in Alaska, the Great Outdoor Shangri la.

Captain Mel and company was the conduit to an experience that would leave any true mountain man both spiritually and emotionally overwhelmed. Until you see it, it’s hard to imagine bald eagles and whales so plentiful that they become commonplace. It’s hard to imagine postcard scenes of majestic snow-capped mountains thrusting up from the emerald green ocean literally around every turn. It’s hard to imagine brown bears walking the coastline where the rivers let out into the ocean. And now, after living it for the past few years, it’s hard to imagine going through life without the experience.

Standing on the deck of a fishing boat, feeling the cool north breeze in your face, seeing the sites and hearing the sounds of the great North Country, you cannot help but be spiritually moved. Sharing a soul-moving experience with family and friends adds even more meaning. There are places where the Creator’s hand produced masterpieces that speak to the soul of mountain men everywhere. Two such places are the Missouri Ozarks and Alaska. If you’ve never been to Alaska I hope you get to see it some day. To find out more about this great adventure visit http://www.kodiakislandadventures.com/ If you are anything like me, you will never be able to get enough of it. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one!

Alaskan fishing adventurer Jack Fortney with the third largest halibut of the trip.

Aboard the Lana J and in search of Barn Doors in Alaska. Fishermen Jack Fortney, Greg Stephens, and Ellis Floyd.

The Tennessee Triumph

A lifetime of enjoyment and maybe even a profession. It all starts with that first fish on the creek or at the pond. Alex Stephens and a smallmouth bass.

I was in Paris, Tennessee last weekend on Kentucky Lake. You know what? Someone forgot to tell a whole bunch of fisherman that you can’t make a living fishing in this day and age. I watched ninety-three fishermen who grew up loving to fish and at some point in their lives they decided they were going to live their lives doing what they loved. Poor souls – I mean think about how tough their profession is. Who would want to travel all over fishing in every premier lake and river in the country? Who would want to travel in brand new trucks pulling brand new bass boats all covered in cool looking sponsor graphics? Who wouldn’t feel guilty about getting first-class fishing equipment and apparel provided for you to use by sponsors free of charge. I know I would. That’s why I was in a canoe and casting a twenty year old rod with an Ambassador 5500C reel that I inherited from dad.

The truth is I was there with the U.S. Sportsmen’s Alliance to hold a Trailblazers Adventure Day in conjunction with the Bassmasters Elite Series, Tennessee Triumph bass tournament. For a fellow who grew up fishing in southern Missouri ponds, creeks, and rivers, this was a sight to behold. The tournament started on Wednesday with a 6:00 am launch and lasted for four days, ending on Saturday at the 3:30 weigh-in. The field started with ninety-three fishermen on Wednesday and was narrowed to 12 for the final on Saturday. The weigh-in stage looked more like something straight from Las Vegas than what you would expect for a bunch of fishermen. Daily, the tournament emcee or some of the vendors would rile up the crowd like Fred Bird at a St. Louis Cardinals baseball game. They would throw various types of fishing tackle or outdoor garments into the crowd and the folks went wild like groupies at a rock concert! There were tents full of vendors with all the latest and greatest fishing equipment imaginable. There was a giant big screen like those in professional sports arenas. There were enormous inflatables like at the Macy’s Day Parade. There were food vendor trailers like at the state fair. Heck, there was even a giant aquarium with largemouth bass reminding a person of a Bass Pro Shop on wheels! Finally, there were giant satellite trucks from ESPN beaming the live coverage to all parts of the country.

At the end of the tournament the sponsor trucks pulled the boats right to the stage and each fisherman pulled his final catch from the live-well. After weighing in, each fisherman told of the tactics he employed to make it to that point in the tournament. With all the hoopla it was almost anticlimactic to learn, with the exception of some state of the art location equipment, these folks fish with the same tactics and equipment that we anglers here in the Ozarks employ. On Kentucky Lake the bait of choice for most of the anglers in the final 12 was a crankbait, however, the heaviest fish caught was a 10 pound 1 ounce largemouth caught on a plastic worm by professional fisherman Kelly Jordan. It was a sight to behold and the other fisherman all made their way to see this impressive fish. Even in the ranks of the elite a 10 pound largemouth weighed in at a tournament is a Holy Grail of sorts.

In the end, however, the heaviest four day catch was from Kalamazoo, Michigan professional fisherman Kevin VanDam, who boated 90 pounds, 5 ounces. KVD, won his 18^th tournament and is now one away from the all time record of 19. Kevin caught the majority of his take on two Strike King crankbaits, a series 6 XD and a Sexy Chad Silent Stalker. There is no doubt this man has decided to chase his dream to be the best at what he loves. There is also no doubt that for years he had to adjust his standard of living to allow for him to pursue his dream. Today, however, that dedication has paid off. Winning $100,000 dollars for 1^st Place in the Bassmasters Elite Series, Tennessee Triumph tournament and over $600,000 just this year is proof that chasing your dreams not only will provide you with the satisfaction of doing what you love but also can be very lucrative as well. Who would have thought that taking KVD to a pond with a Zebco and bobber for the first time years ago would set him on course to be one of the most successful fishermen of all time as well as a man ultimately content with pursuing his passion in life? Good for you Kevin VanDam. Take a child to the Great Outdoors - you never know what might become of it. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Inspiration From the Other Side

Our last camp together – left to right, Forrest Casey, Greg Stephens, and Ted Stephens

Mark Twain said, “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than the things you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” In short, follow your dreams now and don’t wait. Be that brain surgeon, astronaut, or even President of the United States, and the sooner you start the journey the sooner you’ll get there. With that thought in mind, as parents, we always want the best for our children and encourage them to achieve greatness. My parents were no different. As a child I was taught that I could accomplish anything on which I set my mind. So, you can imagine my father’s frustration when he asked all through my high school and college days what I wanted to do with my life and my answer was, “Truthfully Dad, all I want to do is trap, hunt, and fish.”

As parents the mistake many of us make is deciding for our children what success is, in advance of our children discovering who they really are. Some folks find harmony with this life by discovering scientific truth as an astrophysicist at Cambridge University while others simply dream of owning their own business and interacting with the common man as a hot dog vendor on the corner in New York City. I wanted to be a mountain man. The American Indians believed you could find wisdom in your dreams and after a dream that I had a few years ago, I believe that my dad now understands and accepts where I find success and harmony with this life on earth. My father had passed away in April, 1997, just 25 days before my son, Alex, was born. When you loose a loved one and then have a dream in which they speak directly to you, it’s as if you’ve touched the other side. To this day I remember the experience vividly; I saw his eyes and I heard his voice. The morning of my dream I drifted from the dream into the hazy, early morning light of my bedroom almost without waking but rather walking through a door of consciousness from one place to another. And as I recollected our conversation, I realized there had been others in my dream that I had recognized as well.

In the dream I had entered a doorway into a room that opened into a great landscape covered by a sea of men that stretched as far and wide as the eye could see. They were all standing at attention, each looking over and around the other, quietly and intently staring at me. There were thousands of them stretching back to the horizon and I could feel their collective consciousness bearing down on me. Standing in front of this great mass of men was my father, Ted Stephens. To his sides were old hunting friends, Forrest Casey, Alton Moreland and Clifton Gray, each dressed in their hunting garb as they were the last time I remembered hunting with them. To my amazement, directly behind them I recognized some of my greatest heroes: Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, Jim Bridger, and Theodore Roosevelt, to name a few.

In front of this collection of outdoor influences from my past, I felt as if I were a neophyte standing before a vast fraternity from the ages to which I aspired to belong. However, from a surreal sense, I knew there was no test to belong to this group. Membership was attained through a life’s work. They fully expected my 100% dedication to their cause. In this world there would be no reward for this dedication, no final day of victory, no promise of rest at the end of the long journey, only eternal vigilance. The only reward for being counted among the ranks of this mountain man fraternity was the satisfaction of knowing that the torch of our connection with Mother Nature had not gone out in my hands.

As I looked on in amazement over the sight, my gaze came back to my father. He simply looked me straight in the eye and said, “Greg, you owe us. It’s up to you now.” And then they were gone. While in my life’s journey, as I am “throwing off the bowlines” in my aspirations to trap, hunt, and fish, from the spirit world Dad , in his typical fashion, is piling on more responsibility and he isn’t going to let it be easy. Some things just never change!

Still assigning chores from the Happy Hunting Grounds. The One-Eyed Hillbilly and his father, their last deer season, 1996.

So, today, as a staunch supporter of the U.S. Sportsman’s Alliance Trailblazer Adventure Day program, I am encouraging families and youth to experience the Great Outdoors. Perfect truth when living in harmony with Mother Nature is a goal worthy of passing on to all in this technological age. To learn more about the organization and program, visit www.ussportsmen.org and www.trailblazeradventure.org If you know of any organization interested in hosting such an event, contact the U.S. Sportsman’s Alliance and set one up today – it’s free! Yesterday is a canceled check, today is cash, and tomorrow is a promissory note. Let’s spend our cash wisely on the future generations. Our outdoor heritage is all of our charge. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Striking It Rich at Bennett Springs

Enjoying the wealth of camping in the Great Outdoors - cousins Ashley Holt and Alex and Coleman Stephens with a Bennett Springs box turtle.

Has it ever occurred to you that being ‘poor’ is only possible when considered within the context of mankind’s economy? I mean, just imagine if we were disciplined enough to remove all of our material wants and perceived entitlements. We would be left with just the true fabric of life as provided by the Creator in nature. All the riches or the lack there of, would no longer be meaningful concepts. Just like the raccoon, bobcat, or whitetail deer, you would be happy to sleep, eat, and stay healthy and you would ask for little more. I am not naïve enough to believe that our society can ever completely revert back to being one with Mother Nature, however, just making a few steps in that general direction is enough to make one realize how blessed and ‘rich’ our lives can be regardless of our economy and financial status.

A perfect example of such a rich way of life was right here in the Ozarks during the Great Depression. The old-timers told stories of folks from the cities coming into this country during the depression and telling about how bad things were outside the hills but the locals would have none of it. Money had always been tight in these parts and many folks from the Ozarks were still involved in a barter economy utilizing very little money. It was simply business as usual. In addition to farming, daily living required one to hunt, fish, or trap for their daily food. Yes, by some accounts we were poor but we didn’t know it and, poor or not, life was still as sweet as a drink of cold spring water on a hot July day. Sometimes what you don’t know not only won’t hurt you, but it can make for a more fulfilling life all the way around.

Now, fast forward 80 years from the Great Depression to 2010 in Bennett Springs State Park. What a beautiful jewel of the Missouri Ozarks! The Indians called it “Eye of the Sacred One” and it doesn’t take long to realize why. Established in 1923, this majestic park boasts a spring that churns out 103 million gallons of crystal clear Missouri spring water daily. With amenities including a full service restaurant, a generously stocked lodge, a motel, 5 campgrounds, cabins, a swimming pool, a fish hatchery, and beautiful scenery around every corner, it is a site to behold and a camping and fishing trip to experience. Just being there will enrich your treasure chest of life’s experiences.

Memorial Day weekend found our immediate and extended family camped at Bennett Springs in true hillbilly fashion. There were eight of us - dad, mom, kids, cousins, uncles, and grandma, staying in one 16 foot camping trailer. If grandma would’ve been smoking a pipe we could have made a hillbilly postcard! Want to know if you really love your loved ones? Put eight of them in a 160 ft² box and if you don’t kill each other then the Creator has truly blessed you! We camped, fished, cooked over the fire, swam, and generally enjoyed the Great Outdoors. We were rich!

As we hiked the roads through the five campgrounds, the camping shelters ranged from 10 year old tents to brand new half million dollar motor homes. As we waded and fished the river, the fishing apparel and equipment ranged from top-of-the-line Orvis and Filson to hand-me-down Zebco 202s with bobbers. Yet, despite the huge range in quality and cost of the equipment utilized, no one seemed to care, or even know, if they were poor in the campground. Life was good for all.

Today, if you need a reality check to help reset your connection with your family and Mother Nature, get in the Great Outdoors. Nothing is more refreshing to feel the freedom of Nature’s Economy. Nature’s Economy never needs a government bailout, it never needs to raise interest rates, and it never sees jobs move out of the country. Nature’s Economy is always a constant; a safety net to provide for us when our own system casts doubt. It is a perfect economy with a perfect currency and if you don’t know any better, you’ll never be poor.

This past Memorial Day Weekend at Bennett Springs was a great weekend and a fitting way to honor our ancestors from the hills. We were a family, one with Mother Nature, oblivious to the economy outside these Ozark hills, happily enjoying the basics of this life - eating, sleeping, and enjoying healthy living. Man we were rich this past Memorial Day, I hope you were too. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Hung up on and in the Great Outdoors

Trying to get off Elkhorn Mountain. Front row from left - Danny Dickman, Ellis Floyd, and Greg Stephens

There’s a rule at our house – no video games during weekdays. And, on the weekends, we try to do various family functions, outdoor activities, and chores. The idea is to limit exposure to the TV and video trap. The kids think we’re on some demented power trip designed to make their lives miserable. I mean gosh, according to them, all their friends are doing it. The way I see it, if a child is going to get hooked on something, they may as well develop a passion for something that can provide enjoyment, lessons, adventure, and even sustenance for a lifetime, and all while simultaneously participating within the fabric of Mother Nature and mankind’s society. I remember, before the days of video games, getting my first taste of freedom, being set loose to explore the creeks, fields, and woods of southern Missouri. I would leave the house with fishing pole or .22 rifle in hand, and as far as I could explore in half a day was my only boundary. I was definitely hung-up on anything in the Great Outdoors.

When my friends and I reached driving age, we discovered a euphoric rite of passage in our new found freedom out from under the watchful eyes of mom and dad. However, there were limitations from parents in our new found freedom - that is until it came to hunting and fishing. As long as our parents knew we were in the woods, at the farm, or on the river and not running around town, the scrutiny of our actions was less severe. So, as we were exercising our new freedoms, we were also discovering our great passion for all things outdoors. We were also discovering that for some of us getting hung-up in the outdoors was just as exciting as getting hung-up on the outdoors. Enter my outdoor companion, Ellis Floyd.

Together, Ellis and I have been stuck more times than I care to remember. And not just stuck but buried. You see, there are some folks that are just good at it. Ellis and I are two such people. When we were younger we actually enjoyed the adventure of getting hung-up in the outdoors. Dad used to shake his head and say, “You boys will grow out of that someday.” But it just seemed like every time we went hunting or fishing, the truck, dune buggy, or 544 John Deere, 4-wheel-drive forklift always got stuck. I mean, haven’t we all taken our parent’s 544 John Deere, 4-wheel-drive forklift from the family sawmill down through the field while rabbit hunting and buried it up to the axels in the soft mud? And you, like us, probably spent all night using a two hundred foot cable and chains tied to the forks to move the forklift a foot at a time across the field by raising the hydraulics up and down. And I’m sure in August when your dad discovered the 75-yard long, 5-foot deep dried up ruts in the middle of the field he wasn’t too happy either. I mean, we’ve all done that, right?

Preparing to dig out the Bronco. Danny Dickman standing on the Bronco in a Colorado mountain mud hole

And then there was the time we were out playing on the 3-wheeler and my dune buggy. I had been all over the farm with the dune buggy and that thing would go anywhere. It was so light it didn’t sink in the mud and the back tread would really get traction. I made the mistake of commenting to Ellis, “You can’t get this thing stuck.” I, of course, should have included the words, ‘within reason’, but when it came to getting stuck there was nothing about Ellis that was ‘within reason.’ We then traded, I took the three-wheeler and Ellis and Randy took the dune buggy and we went our separate ways. Hours later, it was getting dark and I was getting worried so I decided I should start looking for them. Just as I started looking I came upon them walking - a bad sign. When I pulled up beside them they were wet, muddy, and laughing hysterically…another bad sign. As Ellis stood there crying with laughter all I could make out were the words, “stuck,…..pond!” This was really a bad sign. I took off on the 3-wheeler straight for the pond. As I approached the dam I could see the tracks going up and over. As I topped the pond dam I thought to myself, “I stand corrected.” The dune buggy was definitely stuck…and sunk—in the middle of the pond! He was good.

Ellis got so good he took the show on the road. Twice while elk hunting in Colorado we managed to bury the rigs in unbelievable predicaments. Once, while out scouting the night before opening day, just before dark Ellis buried the Bronco in a mud hole heading down hill! To add insult to injury it was 5 miles from camp! Five of us walked the five miles out of the mountains back to camp in the pitch black of night. Another time we headed out for a pleasant evening drive over Elkhorn Mountain that turned into an all- night expedition on a road that had 18 inches of new snow and would have been a challenge for an army half-track without the snow, let alone 4 mostly stock 4-wheel drives! We left on the ride at 4 pm and got back to camp at 10 am the next morning. If we hadn’t taken a winch, we would still be there today! At this point in our lives I can look at Ellis and see in his face if we are going to get hung-up in the Great Outdoors before we even leave the house!

Its funny how many of our parent’s lessons aren’t understood until 25 years later. Twenty-five years later I now know dad was right, I have outgrown the enjoyment of getting hung-up in the Great Outdoors but I am still firmly hung up on the Great Outdoors. And we, like our parents, will give our kids freedom to explore and discover great adventure, getting hung-up on and in the Great Outdoors. Twenty-five years from now they will know that limiting their time on those video games wasn’t the end of the world. I’m just glad I don’t have a 544 John Deere forklift! So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Camping – An Outdoorsman’s Home Away From Home

Camping is exciting in all seasons and for all ages. Natalie Floyd and Alex Stephens, Deer camp in the Ozarks

New Year’s Camp, spring turkey camp, fishing camp, Memorial weekend camp, 4th of July camp, Labor Day weekend camp, bow camp, trappers rendezvous camp, fall turkey camp, deer camp, whew, why do I even own a house? We camp almost as much as we are at home. I would rather sleep in a tent in the outdoors on a crisp, cool night than any house in which I’ve ever lived. There’s just something about lying down in the Great Outdoors that brings out the adventurer in an outdoorsman. It is also a great way to introduce the kids to the great outdoors. For a child camping is an adventure of the greatest degree. And for an adult, if you challenge yourself, camping in certain environments is still a true adventure for the wanderlust outdoor soul.

For our family the seasons and the environment dictate what sort of camping we do. If it’s above 65° F all night long, for me, it’s time for a camper with AC. It seems I am an oddity according to my wife. I want a camper in the summer and a tent the rest of the year. When I sleep I prefer it at least cool if not down right cold. The best sleeping I’ve ever done was in a tent with lots of warm covers where you could see your breath when you exhaled. Therefore, for our Memorial weekend camp through Labor Day weekend camp, we use a camper with AC. It is also nice to have a place for the family to play games and cook away from the bugs and heat. During these times of the year fishing is generally the activity of choice.

On the other hand, cool or cold, crisp nights – fall, winter, or spring, in my opinion, are the best times to tent camp. Stepping out of your army tent at 9,000 feet of elevation in Colorado and getting hit in the face with a 5 below zero breeze, now that’s camping! You walk around holding a tin cup of coffee to keep your hands warm. It is absolutely exhilarating. Then, at night, you get ready for bed and jump into your sleeping bag and vigorously rub your legs and arms to ease the goosebumps as you wait for the bag to warm up. After the edge of coldness has subsided, you watch the old barrel wood stove glow orange as it huffs along like a steam locomotive heading down the tracks. From the ground to a few feet high you lie there and can see your breath and then when you stand up its 75° F or more all the way to the top of the tent! Tent camping in the high country winter wilderness is an exciting and rewarding challenge for any outdoorsman. The lessons learned are of great value for anyone who wants to learn cold-weather camping like the mountain men of old.

I learned one such lesson back in the mid 1980’s while deer camping at Ft. Leonard Wood. Charlie Pace, my father, and me were camped in a borrowed tent with a borrowed catalytic heater. Before season Charlie had treated the tent several times with Thompson’s Water Sealer so if it rained we would stay dry. Opening day found us leaving camp before light and returning to camp after dark. As we drove up to camp I wheeled the truck to where I thought our camp had been and stopped the truck. Dad said, “Hey moron, where’s our tent? You’ve stopped at the wrong camp.”

I quickly surveyed the spot. All the same campers belonging to our camp cohorts were there. It was just our tent that was missing. Just about that time the military police pulled in behind us and I saw a large black spot on the ground with some aluminum poles scattered around half buried in ash. “Dad,” I said, “We’re in the right camp but our tent isn’t with us anymore.”

It was completely gone! During the day some of the hunters had come in for lunch and put their trash in the campfire. The trash had caught the grass on fire and it had burned over to the tent. The hunters camped beside our camp told us the tent was gone in 30 seconds! They had just barely had enough time to put out the fire under some of the camper trailers in our camp. Our hunting clothes, sleeping bags, extra boots, and the borrowed heater were all gone. An MP walked up and handed me a knife with a charred sheath my grandmother had given me for Christmas. “This was all we could salvage,” he said. “What did you guys have on that tent anyway?” I sure was glad it was Charlie that had borrowed that tent and heater and not me!

This year, if you’re looking for a great Memorial weekend with the kids or friends, try camping in the Great Outdoors. You never know, you might even learn a lesson or two that will stick with you for life. Lesson to self – don’t treat tents with commercial water sealer. If it catches fire you won’t put it out! So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Rookies, Mentors, and Legends

Trapping mentor and Ozark trapping legend, Kenny Wells on the Current River.

They say a child’s attention span is equal in minutes to their age in years. After this past spring turkey season I would say that estimate is way too generous. As I sat under a tree turkey hunting with my 6 year old son Coleman sitting between my legs, I began to wonder about what his young life held in store for him. I thought of my own journey through life and who helped shape the course that has put me where I am today. Today on the subject of raising children apparently there is a book that advances the notion that it ‘takes the village’ to raise a child. Hogwash I say. It takes a good set of parents who have the good judgment to expose a child to the right influences. ‘The village’ of today’s pop culture is not any village that the folks from the hills would have raise their children! I thank God every day for the role models and mentors to whom I was introduced and from whom I took heed. For Coleman, as I watched him set there between my legs and begin to fidget after barely two minutes, I hoped that I was able to do as good a job for him as my parents had done for me.

As for a child and mentors and role models in the outdoors, Dad started me fishing around 4 to 5 years old. From that time on, every time he set out on a fishing trip I cried to go along. At 6 years old, having just learned to fish the year before, I felt I was entitled to go with him and the guys on the annual pilgrimage to Toledo Bend, Texas to bass fish on the legendary lake. I was sadly mistaken! I cried for the first two days they were gone. Today what strikes me as the important issue is the urgency with which I wanted to go along. And, it wasn’t just the fishing, rather, it was fishing with Dad that I wanted to do so desperately. He was my role model and I wanted to be just like him. Don’t get me wrong, he made mistakes, as we all do but now in my forties I understand he did a tremendous amount right. Just as my father had been for me, it was now time for me to be a mentor and role model in the outdoors for my six year old son Coleman, who was now stretching his arms straight up in the air and yawning as he sat between my legs. He said, “Dad, I’m tired and I can’t sleep here. I’m ready to go home.” It had been about three minutes since we sat down. It was beginning to look like Coleman was going to be a difficult case!

As Coleman settled down once again I again drifted off thinking of others who have had an effect on my outdoor life. I believe from the influences of your mother and father you also develop a keen sixth sense of judgment about people’s character and values. Some years after being firmly established in the Ozark ways of hunting and fishing by my father and his many friends, I became acquainted with a true Ozark trapping legend, Kenny Wells, who took me under his wing and taught me the ways of the Ozark mountain men free trappers of years gone by. In true Missouri mountain man form, his actions are a testament to his character and values. During the 1980’s in a hard fought federal court battle, through Kenny’s hard work on behalf of trappers statewide, on the Current River trapping was solidified as an original activity covered by the law establishing the Ozark National Scenic Riverways. Through his dedication to trapping, the 9th District of the Missouri Trappers Association was formed. Through his hope for the future of young people in the outdoors, he has volunteered and taught many the art of fur trapping. Just about the time Coleman started looking around and fidgeting again I remember thinking that these were the hard-nosed, ambitious, and forward thinking traits of an Ozark mountain man that I hoped to instill in my boys.

Rookies - Brothers Alex and Coleman Stephens. Kids who hunt, fish, and trap don’t mug little old ladies.

At that moment Colman’s body went rigid. He was staring at his arm and he exclaimed, “tick, Tick, TICK!” We had been there for five minutes. My son Alex was sitting about 15 feet away and he broke out laughing just about the time I was getting irritated and told Coleman that we don’t talk out loud and freak out over a tick in the turkey woods. Then, because of his brother laughing, Coleman started laughing, and as hard as I tried to put on a stern face, I finally burst out laughing too! After we finally calmed down Coleman let out a big sigh and said, “Dad, you sit here and call for the turkeys. I’m going to walk back in the woods and look for flowers. When the turkeys get close, call me and I’ll come back over here.” I now think mentoring Coleman might take longer than I had anticipated! However, it’s a task that a father looks forward to with great anticipation. I hope you decide to be a role model and mentor for a young person, you never know, it might be one of the greatest influences in their lives. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Ozarks Creek Fishin’

Young kids and fishing - the foundation for a lifetime of memories.

Some of my most exciting outdoor adventures were as a very young boy, Zebco 303 rod and reel in hand, being set free on Hyer Branch creek at Lake Spring, Missouri. Chiggers, ticks, and snakes were but a moment’s pause before advancing head on into the great fishing unknown. I imagined this unexplored creek surely held world record small-mouth bass and pan fish the size of a 16” cast iron skillet. For bait there were two jars – one filled with worms dug from the old garden spot and the other filled with grasshoppers caught in the hayfield. Six pound test line and a red and white bobber was just the ticket for great fishing action. An old perforated galvanized minnow bucket with a hinged round lid on top served as a live well. Man, I thought I was outfitted better than Marlin Perkins on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom during a fishing trip to the Amazon!

As I got older and had access to my own transportation, many other local creeks familiar to me held that same allure for fishing adventure. Spring Creek, Hutchins Creek, Ashley Creek and many more, it seemed that every valley held another potential hidden fishing bonanza. Smallmouth bass became the quarry of choice. Everyone to whom you talked told stories of the elusive 4 pound monster that hid in this pool and that pool. Each fisherman told how they had seen it or ‘had it on’ for a moment before the line snapped. Each story held a ‘treasure map’ of how to get there and every opportunity found my friends and me following the patchwork directions to the pool that held the big one that got away. Such was the life of a wanderlust-filled adolescent fishing fanatic of the 1970’s and 1980’s.

It’s amazing the things you learn about your buddies while fishing. About the age of 17, I was fishing for the first time with my friend Scott Duncan. Scott and I were fishing Dry Fork Creek in rural Dent County at the old iron bridge. We had been fishing for a while and had not yet caught any fish when Scott hooked a good one. After an exciting fight Scott finally landed a very respectable 3 to 3.5 pound smallmouth. I commented on how nice the fish was and Scott threw a little of the typical competitive fisherman trash talk my way. I didn’t think a thing about it and kept on fishing while hoping my luck would be so good as well. After what seemed like several minutes I noticed that I hadn’t heard Scott stringer the fish or cast his rod back in the water. I was also getting a strange feeling that something was watching me. Being the One-Eyed Hillbilly that I am, I turned my head toward my blind side and…WOW! There was his bass dangling there beside my head! I turned to investigate and Scott was holding his rod from behind me and allowing his fish to hang right beside my face. “I don’t touch those nasty things!” he told me. He was waiting patiently for me to take his fish off the hook! Now if that doesn’t beat all - a guy that catches a fish, trash talks you, and then expects you to take his fish off the hook!

Today I still love to walk the hundreds of creeks in rural Southern Missouri searching for trophy smallmouth bass. I have evolved my equipment and bait compared to years ago. I now use a spin cast reel with 6 pound test line, a medium-heavy rod, and a small jig-and-frog rig for bait (not sure it catches any more or bigger fish than the Zebco 303 with worms but it sure looks good!). This is effective for everything from large sunfish and goggle-eye to smallmouth and largemouth.

Smallmouth season in Missouri starts on Saturday, May 22 and extends through February 28, 2011. If you are looking to rekindle a little of the youthful fishing wanderlust of your younger days try heading up an old long-forgotten creek in Southern Missouri. More importantly, take a young child with you who hasn’t got to experience those same fishing adventures that you and I have experienced. As the old saying goes, “Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and feed him for a lifetime.” That is true for both physical and mental nourishment. And who knows, you might stumble onto a hole that holds a hawg! So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

The Mysterious Morel

Few other secrets in nature bring out the territorial instincts of an outdoorsman as asking him about where his favorite mushroom hunting grounds are located. If he offers to take you with him mushroom hunting he is either taking you to unexplored territory and he wants to employ another set of eyes or you are in the inner circle of the tight-lipped and trusted hunting buddies who would never reveal the location of his secret mushroom beds. Either way, it is an exciting hunting trip that can produce some of the most delicious morsels that Mother Nature has to offer. For me personally, morels are the only things that can derail a spring turkey hunt right in the middle of the chase.

Many years ago my son Jason and I were quickly sneaking down an old fence-line while spring turkey hunting. We had heard some turkeys and Jason wanted me to call one in for him. As we slipped along the fence I was moving at a fairly quick pace trying to find a spot from which to call. As I slipped along I was glancing here and there. All of a sudden something subconsciously triggered in my mind. I was not looking at it but I realized I had walked right past a large morel mushroom. I stood straight up and stopped in my tracks. Jason said, “What’s wrong? Do you see a turkey?” I didn’t say a word but immediately backed up and started looking at all the places along the fence that I had just passed. Then I found it and man was it a nice one. As I zoned in on the area I realized there were several right there in front of us. I dropped everything and started picking mushrooms. Jason stared on in complete disbelief.

Jason said, “There are turkeys gobbling and you are picking mushrooms? You have got to be kidding me!” I didn’t say a word but just kept picking. He urgently kept on whispering some mumbo jumbo and I kept on ignoring him until he said something a little more urgently than before. “There are turkeys right in front of us!” Ok, now I started paying attention. Sure enough, about fifty yards in front of us a group of young gobblers had been coming to the calling we had done before finding the mushrooms. I had been in the mushroom zone and hadn’t been listening. With hands and pockets full of morels I dropped to the ground right under the fence and began calling. Jason sat down in his tracks. Within 5 minutes the turkeys were twenty steps out and Jason laid into one. Jackpot! Now that was a hunting trip to remember – mushrooms and turkeys, what a combination!

Morel appearance is influenced by weather more than any other factor. Ground temperature, air temperature, and ground moisture are the main factors. Warm spring days with highs in the 60’s to 70’s and ground temperatures in the 50’s to 60’s are ideal conditions. Morels are found in many areas but there are some places more productive than others. Under certain types of trees, such as elm, ash, sycamore, and apples trees, there are great opportunities. There is a ‘look’ that goes with ideal morel hotspots. After you learn the ‘look’, as you walk through the woods you instinctively lock-up and survey the area. As you get more adept to the experience you will spend much less time hunting and more time finding mushrooms. To help you identify the many different types of trees I suggest you visit a local Missouri Department of Conservation Office and pick up some the various publications available to the public. A personal favorite spot for me is a well drained but moist area containing dead and dying elm trees with bark slipping from the tree trunks and amassing on the ground around the base of the tree. If there are some clumps of green grass growing in the leaves or moss growing on surrounding rocks, all the better. This describes an area with the ‘look’ of a morel hotspot.

After mastering morel hunting, next comes morel cooking. My favorite two ways to fix morels are the old reliable egg and flour battered and fried in butter in a cast iron skillet and cooked in wine sauce. Morels cooked in wine sauce and served with a thick ribeye steak fresh from the grill is second to none! For more delicious morel recipes and morel hunting information, visit The Great Morel website at thegreatmorel.com . There is more information on the web about this wonderful pastime than you would ever imagine.

Morel hunting is an opportunity for the whole family to learn tree identification, mushroom identification, and outdoor savvy. You can start a young outdoorsman on the path of living within the boundaries of Mother Nature’s Economy while spending valuable time with your children and grandchildren. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Link - thegreatmorel.com

Turkey Hunting Humble Pie

I’ve had turkey fixed about every way you can fix it. It’s all good,… except one way – a big heaping helping of turkey hunting humble pie. I hate that stuff! This past weekend during youth season we had it all covered – new ground blind, all varieties of turkey calls, great looking decoys, and a great place to hunt. The turkeys, however, weren’t let in on the plan. They did not cooperate…or they cooperated too well, depending on your point of view.

My cousin, Lance, and his 8 year old daughter, Lydia, hunted with my son Alex and me at our farm for the youth turkey season weekend. Our camper was set up beside the old farmhouse. We had all the camp necessities – hot dogs, soda, candy, and chips. We had all the right equipment – ipods, cell phones, hand held movie players…(I don’t know the correct name for these things…PS2 player maybe?), anyway, they kids were ready to go.

The night before opening morning, after a 10:30 pm camp hot dog, we went out to set up the ground blind in the pitch black of night in the food plot next to the turkeys we had roosted. Opening morning found us all four in the blind at the first crack of light. We heard several gobblers gobbling from the roost; however they weren’t as close as we had thought. After approximately an hour of calling, it was decided that Alex and I would take a trip to the other side of the farm. That is when the ingredients of the turkey hunting humble pie began to come together. Just as we made it to the road leading from the food plot, a large gobbler hidden in the brush in the opposite corner of the food plot, decided to bug-out. He had been coming to our calling but hadn’t made a peep in return. That disgusted, sick feeling crept over me. Sometimes in turkey hunting one chance is all you get.

After getting to the other side of the farm Alex and I, in one of our favorite ambush sites, crouched down to call without putting out the decoys and locating ourselves in good tactical positions…turkey hunting tip #1 - NEVER call without expecting a turkey to answer right on top of you. This was the second ingredient of the bitter turkey hunting humble pie recipe. As we were standing in the corner of a field, up on a knoll in the wide-open woods, a gobbler answered not 75 yards from where we were standing. We immediately dropped to the ground. Alex was between my legs and we were sitting with no backrest in the middle of a briar patch. The gobbler flipped on his gobble switch and it was stuck on ‘gobble’. As he was coming in and answering our every call, we could hear him walking in the leaves just under the knoll on which we were located. Just then, in the distance we began hearing a helicopter. As the helicopter got closer and closer it also got louder and louder and the gobbler shut up, or we just couldn’t hear him over the noise. It flew directly over our heads just a couple hundred feet off the ground. It felt as though the ground was shaking!

After the ground finally stopped moving and the noise subsided there was no sign of our gobbler. A few minutes went by but we still could not hear him walking or gobbling (…maybe because our ears were ringing…). After a few more minutes of sitting up without a backrest and Alex leaning on me, my back began to scream. Then Alex whispered, “Dad, there he is!” As I looked frantically down the fence from where he had previously been coming I asked, “Where? I don’t see him.” As only fate would have it, the crazy thing was on my blind side (One-Eyed Hillbilly), directly to our right, forty yards from us! We were pointed in the wrong direction, sitting with no backrest, standing out like a sore thumb, and with no way to move. The gobbler began clucking and walking directly away from us. Defeat snatched from the jaws of victory. This turkey hunting humble pie was being force fed with helicopters.

The final ingredient to our weekend recipe of turkey hunting humble pie came the second morning. Again, we had roosted the turkeys, again we had a battle plan, and again we were ready to get started. Nothing would stop us today…until Alex, as he sat there in the camper on the edge of his bed getting dressed said, “I hear a turkey gobbling.” I told him he was crazy. It was 5:30 am and he was still in the camper. If he heard a turkey gobbling it would have to be within 75 yards of the old farmhouse and camper. I opened up the door to the camper and “GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOOBLE!” There were two turkeys roosted within 75 yards of the house! We immediately began bumbling and falling all over each other in a mad rush to get dressed! The turkeys were so close that we didn’t know how we could get out of the camper without being seen.

First thought would be to think that this was a stroke of good luck; however it was actually the third and last ingredient in the humble pie. First of all our carefully crafted battle plan for the two groups of hunters for the day had to be scrapped. Second, we had no prior knowledge of the roosted birds so close to the house and thus, no good plans and tactics for taking advantage of the situation. With campers, houses, tractors, trucks, barns, and well houses blocking every route, there was no good approach for this unforeseen opportunity. We had to sneak through the farmhouse back yard, through the woods, and over to the trail leading to the food plot and set up our decoys. The two gobblers were gobbling about every thirty seconds. I heard one fly down and gobble on the ground. Then, just as I had suspected, the two turkeys retreated directly away from the direction of all the structures, roads, and vehicles, gobbling the whole time as they went. They wanted the hen we were representing to follow them however they weren’t about to come toward us. It was a bitter lesson in futility. Humble pie served up cold and dry.

With youth season over we now will place all our hopes in the Missouri regular turkey season, Monday, April 19 – Sunday, May 7. My youngest son, Coleman is turning 6 years old on April 12, so he will be in the ground blind with us. I hope he is a good luck charm since Alex and I can’t stomach any more turkey hunting humble pie. I hope you get the opportunity to take a child to the woods this turkey season. Even when eating humble pie it is one of the most enjoyable experiences of which you will ever be a part. It is also an experience to set a child in motion down the path of a rewarding life in the Great Outdoors. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Crossing Fences

In Missouri, prior to 1969 the law of the land regarding fencing was “open range.” Open range meant it was the landowners responsibility to “fence out” neighboring livestock. Livestock, like wildlife, had free range of the land. That all changed in 1969 when the laws changed to “closed range.” Thank goodness the livestock these days are more educated and understand boundaries, since the livestock owner has to “fence in” their livestock and livestock are not allowed outside those fences. I never had that much appreciation for how educated our Missouri livestock was until I grew up in the outdoors crossing fences. Over the course of forty years it is amazing how much you can learn from such a small and seemingly inconsequential action as crossing, or not crossing, a fence. And the cattle have it figured out.

The first lesson about crossing fences took me well over thirty years to learn and I still forget it occasionally. I experienced déjà vu as I recognized the question and tone that my wife used was identical to that used by my mother for years while doing my laundry and I finally put it all together. From the time I was a young boy up until, umm… last year,… from the laundry room came that same incredulous, distressed, and disgusted voice questioning why I had worn my good pants out in the woods. When crossing a fence, if you are wearing new britches they will rip every time. That is a law written by the fence gods. Take it to the bank.

The second lesson about crossing fences is that hunting dogs and their quarry are color blind and they aren’t as smart as livestock. Either that or they just don’t care about boundaries. Trusting hunting dogs on property boundaries is like trusting the government on international borders – someone is always on the wrong side. Also, all those purple trees aren’t the result of vandals with bad taste in paint color. Apparently, every hunting dog I’ve ever hunted behind was color blind. If you are in the middle of pubic hunting ground and your blue tick strikes, you can bet that the coon and the dog will make a bee-line for the nearest private fence or pretty purple trees, especially if the landowner doesn’t want you there. It’s aggravating when a fella pays big dollars for a top notch hunting dog and it isn’t even as smart as Ol’ Bessie the cow. It’s also really embarrassing when the dog trees in the landowners backyard. Truth be known, I think the coons, coyotes, foxes, and rabbits know the rules but try to frame our hunting dogs. I’ve heard deer do the same thing….

Next lesson - fences will make a liar out of your dad. If you are under 12 years old, ask the Old Man if he can do a forward flip and land on his feet while decked out in his turkey hunting garb. He will tell you, “no way.” Next, begin working a turkey with an old, barely visible, knee-high fence about twenty steps out in front of you. Now, don’t tell the Old Man there is a fence out there. At forty steps, as he shoots the turkey out from under you while it was coming right to you, he will jump up and run like a mad man for the bird. Just about the time he gets to the knee-high fence he will perform the most amazing acrobatic front flip you have ever seen. The judges would all hold up the perfect “10” card if it weren’t for him loosing his shotgun in mid-air and bouncing his butt off the ground on the landing. It’s probably a good idea to go to the bathroom before going on this hunting trip because you will pee your pants after watching him flip and then from the laundry room you will hear that same incredulous, distressed, and disgusted voice.

The final and most shocking fence crossing lesson is learned while hunting during a thunderstorm and crossing the fence. With a bright flash, somewhere up the fence line lightening hits the fence and all the water on the fence raises straight up in the air like a Star Wars force field rising from a space ship. And, as you straddle the fence while holding the top wire down with your hands, you won’t be able to get off the fence. Trust me on this. Despite time going into slow motion and the electricity violently surging through your hands and arms, strangely enough you are still able to think fairly clearly. You remember the many times you have been stung by 110 volts from a house outlet and you compare that experience to touching your tongue to a 9 volt battery as compared to Mother Nature’s current lightening example. Finally, your quick thinking uncle realizes what is going on, lowers his shoulder, and hits you like a middle linebacker, knocking you off the fence with a bone crushing tackle. To add insult to injury, as your uncle lands on top of you, you crush your father’s prize turkey box call between your hip and the ground on the other side of the fence.

These are some of the many lessons learned when crossing fences in the Ozarks. So, as a landowner, when considering our boundaries and in the interest of the good neighbor policy, during fall hunting season it is sometimes prudent to remember hunting dogs and their quarry don’t understand fences and purple paint. On the other hand, this spring while turkey hunting, when contemplating crossing fences it is sometimes wise to take a lesson from our educated livestock friends and don’t do it, especially if you are color blind, wearing new britches, and hunting in a thunderstorm. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

An Itchin’ for Huntin’ and Fishin’

Worth its weight in gold! Jewel weed will prevent the rash associated with exposure to poison ivy

After finally thawing from the deepfreeze of winter, the dirty melting snow piles of late February and March have lost the appeal of the earlier brilliant white beauty of the first snowfalls of early winter and an outdoorsman turns his attention to the warm breezes of spring. Since the time I was a little boy I always remember earnestly wishing and waiting for the final cold days of late winter to pass so that those warm spring breezes would usher in warmer water and ground temperatures for fishing and mushroom hunting in early April and then, with the spring blossoms, the thundering gobbles of spring turkeys in late April and May. Every year since I began getting out into the spring woods in the early 1970’s these wonderful trips afield have had but one drawback. That drawback is an outdoorsman’s most miserable nightmare. It is an evil that has sent me to the hospital on numerous occasions. It seeks you out like a carnivore hunting its prey. Snakes, creepy-crawlies, ticks, bugs, you ask? No, much, much worse. It is the green devil poison ivy.

If there is a patch of poison ivy within five miles of me and I have a square inch of exposed skin, it is a law of nature that I will seek out and sit right in the middle of this curse of spring foliage. The evil resin that this demonic plant secretes in the spring and early summer will line up on my one square inch of exposed skin like a low-hanging branch on your new $5.00 fishing lure. And oh man will it catch you! Faster than a gobbler running from an unintentional squawk from a new mouth-call, this curse will travel to every spot on your body that rubs against another part of your body. At your inner elbows, behind your knees, between you toes and fingers, arm pits, and worse places, it will blossom like a blister from a Coleman lantern burn, but it is much more unpleasant. For me poison ivy is proof that Mother Nature is a little sadistic and has a sick sense of humor.

As a child I single handedly increased the stock price for the Calamine Lotion Company. I recall using gallons of the stuff every spring. Each night before bed my mother would dab it all over my body so thick that if I went to bed too soon thereafter, when I woke up the next morning the sheets were glued to my legs and back! And if you even acted like you were going to itch the rash for relief you were read the riot act in four languages. I was so glad after I got into my late teens to discover that I could go to the hospital and get a shot and the whole mess would simply go away. Of course soon there after Mother Nature paid off the hospitals so that they stopped giving out the shots. Apparently, when using that method the misery didn’t last long enough for the old girl. Again, more proof of a sadistic and sick sense of humor.

Now, as I have gotten older I have also discovered that Mother Nature often likes to throw little puzzles at you to solve. About the time I turned thirty I became interested in natural remedies and heard the old saying that “wherever poison ivy is found, jewel weed grows close by.” Jewel weed is an old-time remedy that will not only immediately relieve the itching from stinging nettles, but it will also prevent the onset of rash from exposure to poison ivy. So, nature inflicts the poison but also provides the cure for those who know how to find it. The Indians knew of this amazing plant and used it for a wide variety of applications. It is found quite abundantly in rich, well drained soils of river valleys and in many places where poison ivy grows and if you’ve been in the woods, in particularly in river valleys, you’ve seen this wonderful plant and might not have even known it.

In my experience there are two things that can spoil a spring turkey hunt – finding a patch of morels and sitting in a patch of poison ivy. The first is a welcome diversion, the second transforms the turkey hunt into a jewel weed hunt! This spring if you have an overpowering urge to hunt and fish the way I do, don’t let the green devil keep you away. Just like good and evil in the spirit world, Nature provides both poison and remedy in close proximity in the natural world; you simply have to know what to look for. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

For more information on Jewel weed visit the following links:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Impatiens
http://www.wildmanstevebrill.com/Plants.Folder/Jewelweed.html

Keeping an Eye Out for your fishing buddies

From humble beginnings at Montauk State Park, to Lake Taneycomo, to the shores of Kodiak, AK - Father & son, Greg & Alex Stephens, shaping a young boys foundations in the Great Outdoors

Sometimes I think you have to be over forty before you realize the levity of some of life’s most unexpected lessons…such as lessons learned while fishing with your dad. These days, while sitting at the campfire and staring out over the river through the early morning mist, I remember back to my first fishing experiences in the early 1970’s. Through the hazy and blurry distortions of time’s prism I see my dad and his friends at our weekly fish-fries on the Current River at Montauk State Park. I remember the sheer ecstatic excitement of a young boy finally being included in the elite group that I knew only as ‘the guys.’ I remember being amazed that these grown-ups actually knew my name! I remember all the pranks, teasing, and laughing directed at me, the new kid, as we fished holes known locally as “Hudson’s Corner,” “The Howard Hole,” and “The Slough.” Today, with my own children growing up and my Dad now gone, I realize there was a much greater significance to spending time fishing with my father and his friends than just the elation of a young boy coming of age. A young and evolving outdoorsman’s sense of value and belonging is shaped by these rites of passage in the great outdoors.

From those humble beginnings my fishing exploits have evolved to an extent Dad would have never imagined. From Florida to Alaska, the venues, friends, and experiences have morphed from a fun-filled pastime to a component of my own outdoor ‘Maslow’s hierarchy of needs’ in my personal journey toward outdoor self-actualization. One such venue was the annual trip to Lake Taneycomo with ‘the guys.’

The names, places, and dates have been changed to protect the innocent….and since none of them were innocent except me - John McColloch, Don Smith, Larry Maxwell, Charlie Pace, Benny Bryson, Jim McDaniels, Bud Glazier, me and several others used to attend an annual fishing trip to Taneycomo every February. Now, in the cabin sitting around the table on fishing trips is much akin to sitting around the campfire during deer and turkey season - there are great stories and laughter, but sometimes the first liar doesn’t have a chance. And, as I learned while playing cards with ‘the guys’, the only honest player at the card table never has a chance!

In my experience fishing Lake Taneycomo in February is often as cold as or colder than fishing in our northern sister state of Alaska. The cold can be down right brutal but the trophy potential is excellent, the card games are fun, and the food in Branson is great! And hey, when you have a chance at landing a world class brown trout, such as the Missouri state record brown trout landed by Scott Sandusky in November 2009 on Taneycomo, a little cold just adds to the excitement. Scott’s monster brown trout, a 28 pound, 12 ounce, 37 inch behemoth, was the third consecutive state record caught in Taneycomo since 2005. The lake previously produced a 27 pound, 8.8 ounce and a 27 pound, 10 ounce brown trout which each held the record for a period of time. According to the Missouri Department of Conservation, Lake Taneycomo has virtually immeasurable potential for producing world-class trout. Enough said.

So, we have a world-class trout fishing lake, good friends, good food, and much laughter. What more could you ask for? Speaking of laughter, one of life’s lessons learned quickly while spending time with ‘the guys’ is that you had better be able to laugh at yourself, because if you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at, right? Now, for those of you who don’t know me, I have a glass eye from a fight with a grizzly bear…ok, but I really do have a glass eye. Now all of ‘the guys’ know that we will have fun with that glass eye at my expense or someone else’s, whenever the opportunity presents itself. Another lesson learned quickly from ‘the guys’ is the unwritten code requiring all group members to cheer up any other in the group who is down on their luck; it’s a moral imperative of sorts. Such was the case the last time I was on the Taneycomo trip.

You see, our buddy John McColloch had been devastatingly out-fished and out-card played by virtually everyone else in the group…again,… and he wasn’t even the honest player in the card game. While we were at dinner Charlie Pace gave me the high sign and I knew I had to bale out our dear friend from his deep, dark, depression in the amateur fisherman and card player doldrums. Someone directed John to look out the restaurant window and when he did, I did the only thing that I thought might make him forget about being embarrassed on the lake and at the card table - I took out my glass eye and dropped it into his water glass. The eye sank through the ice straight to the bottom and when John turned back around he didn’t even notice his glass was looking back at him. With the whole table watching his every move, after finishing his dinner and finally drinking to the bottom of the water glass, his eyes and my eye met. Now I’ve seen lots of reactions of appreciation from my attempts to cheer up a down-and-out buddy in my day but never have I seen someone so choked-up with emotion that they almost lost their dinner right then and there! That is how John reacted…he was a little green colored too. I was touched by John’s reaction and I’ll treasure the memory forever. As will all the rest of ‘the guys,’ who were obviously likewise touched as they were crying, kicking, rolling, and screaming on the table and on the floor. You see, that’s what fishing and hunting buddies do - reaching out to friends in their time of need.

Learning to interact with and be part of the whole of Mother Nature, life-long memories, and, many years later, understanding there was more value to it than the immediate face value of the thing; these are the rewards for the outdoorsman interacting with family and friends in the Great Outdoors. Even in today’s technologically advanced world these memories, experiences, and lessons are still the ones upon which to firmly bed a young child’s outdoor foundations or to provide soul food for an old experienced outdoorsman. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

The Glue that Binds Us

Every veteran Ozark turkey hunter has been there – late in the morning, sitting up against a large oak tree with the warm sun rays beaming through the newly bloomed canopy overhead. The early morning prime-time hunting has slowed and the warm sunlight is slowly taking advantage of the drowsiness from the 5:00 am alarm. In hopes of hearing a late gobbler to chase, you teeter just on the edge between sleeping and consciousness and drift in and out of memories of friends and family from hunting seasons past. These are the memories that honor and keep our loved ones alive in this physical world. These memories, retold time and again around the spring and fall campfires, are how we surviving outdoorsmen pass the torch to future generations while preserving the names and adventures of those who have went before us to join the ranks of the outdoors fraternity immemorial. In our great outdoor heritage this is the glue that binds us.

More so than any other group, outdoorsmen understand and accept the circle of life, it was our beginning and it will be our eventual end. Mother Nature’s perfect design lays out our only two inescapable requirements on this earth, an entrance and an exit. And, while we do not know the exit date, it is up to each of us how we fill in the time in between. For those who knew Bob Duncan, as far as hunting in Great Outdoors of southern Missouri is concerned, we know that he understood how to experience all that Mother Nature had to give. This year for all that knew my friend ‘Arkansas’ Bob Duncan, the spring turkey woods will be a little emptier compared to years past. Bob enriched our lives with more outdoor stories than a person could possibly tell in a year of campfire story telling. Our naps under the oak trees will be visited by the memories of times we spent with Bob in the great outdoors. It is how he would have wanted it. I know because he told me so himself in many of our conversations. Bob knew that one day he would pass through door number two. He also understood the glue that binds us in the brotherhood of outdoorsmen.

Bob loved to laugh and tease with all his friends who participated in his outdoor exploits. Case in point, he tormented me incessantly about a trip that he, Leroy Frizzell, and I took to Iowa pheasant hunting in November 2004. After I scored the first pheasant of the trip on the first morning, Bob and Leroy had the nerve to tease me because I hit the bird too good. Can you imagine that?! I shoot the first bird of the trip and all I can figure is that those two are so jealous that they have the nerve to tease me because I hit the bird with too much shot. They made references to “feather pillows” and “Swiss cheese” when referring to my pheasant. If I had any feelings they would have hurt them! On the other hand, right in front of Leroy and me, Bob spotted a bird standing at the edge of some crop residue and fired off a shot. When the dust and vegetation finally settled to the ground, the bird was still standing there. Bob fired again, and again the dust and corn stalks flew, and again, the bird was still standing there. Bob had fired twice and missed a bird standing still! He never told that side of the story when laughing about my “feather pillow” all over town. Bob got the title of “Arkansas Bob” on that trip. And that’s my side of the story and I’m sticking to it. The only way a person might ever hear any more of the story is from me around my campfire,… or from Leroy Frizzell, but he’s been known to stretch the truth!

This year Missouri turkey season starts April 19th and extends through May 9th. As you sit at your oak this spring teetering between sleep and consciousness I hope you are visited by the bittersweet memories of seasons past. These memories are part of the continuum of the reality that is real life in Mother Nature. Just as all other living things must pass so must we fulfill the second of the two inescapable requirements of life. In life Bob always laughed loudly with that big smile he had and he would say, “Hey Greg, when you gonna write about the Iowa trip?” (I think he wanted to edit the story himself and take some liberties concerning his interpretation of the true happenings). Arkansas Bob is now for the Ages and the Ages are better for it. Senior citizen season will never be the same. God’s speed Bob on your journey to the other side, you are part of the glue that binds us. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good Luck, be safe, and get a big one.

The Road Less Travelled – Responsibility For Your Own Food

For outdoor folks it is easy to talk about being able to harvest and produce all your own food for your family. With the exception of the basic food staples, my wife and I have discussed employing the proposition for some time. Since we are in the woods and water all the time anyway, it only makes sense nutritionally, ethically, and economically, to utilize the harvest to the full extent possible. With our younger boys now coming of age to trap, hunt, and fish, our annual legal take of meat is more than adequate to sustain our family throughout the year. However, actually making the switch from food industry dependence to personal self responsibility for acquiring your own sustenance from the abundance of Mother Nature is much easier said than done. The modern food culture has made convenience the mantra of the day. However, it is highly questionable whether this highly processed convenience is worth the nutritional and environmental costs. As world renowned poet Robert Frost put it, “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I - I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.” In other words, the way of the masses, or the path of least resistance, is not always the best or even most responsible choice.

These days, with all the buzz in the health media about childhood obesity and obesity in general it is worthwhile to note the obvious health benefits of sustenance from Nature. Wild meat and fish naturally contain no high-fructose corn syrup, steroids, preservatives, antibiotics, pesticides, hormones, or other chemical additives. They also typically have less fat than their domestic counterparts. As for home-grown herbs, fruits and vegetables, they too avoid the pitfalls of preservatives, pesticides, and other chemical additives if you grow organically from the onset. Also, taking personal responsibility by growing and harvesting your own food and learning the intricate workings of the cycle of life and death in nature are both educational and intellectual benefits of eating from Nature’s bounty. Finally, in the act of trapping, hunting and fishing, by definition exercise is a necessary component of the undertaking. And if you don’t think you will get exercise working in a garden then you have never grown a garden!

After the growing and harvesting is done, for some, the fun is over and the real work starts. Your dedication to the endeavor or lack there of, will be evident in the processing, packaging, and storing step of the undertaking. Butchering wild game is an art that can take many years to master. There is an enormous amount of available literature online and at specialty book stores on the subject to show the novice how to best butcher wild game. Food borne illness is an issue to address with vigor when harvesting your own meat. Proper handling of wild game necessitates quick processing of the carcass in order to prevent spoilage. Maintaining a clean working environment is also vital so as to prevent any cross contamination. After processing the carcass you must dispose of the offal in a quick, ethical, and clean manner. For herbs, fruits, and vegetables raised in the garden, drying, canning, and freezing are the storage options of choice. Again, there are ample informational resources available on the subject. My resource of choice for gardening and canning is Grandma Stephens. At 86 years old she has done it all and she is a walking encyclopedia on the subject! (she just reminded me that it is time to get out the potatoes, lettuce, and onions)

Make no mistake, food culture is learned at home. Growing up around my grandparents Stephens’ and O’Day’s homes I was exposed to farming, gardening, and hunting on a regular basis. On our dinner table there were always garden fresh tomatoes, corn, peppers, onions, potatoes, watermelon, pumpkins, and I could go on and on. Likewise there was always deer, turkey, fish, quail, squirrel, rabbit or anything else Nature had to offer. I took those foods and experiences for granted as a child. Now that I am much older I understand and appreciate the value of the food culture that was instilled in us as we were growing up. I am blessed to be able to reflect back and repeat those same experiences for my family. However, these days there are many that don’t have past experiences, parents, and grandparents from which to glean this valuable information. Healthy eating through raising, harvesting, and cooking with whole foods and fresh ingredients is a valuable experience to pass along. As more and more studies come down the pike, society is learning that the old ways utilizing whole foods organically grown or harvested from Nature, while maybe not as convenient, are many times healthier than processed food alternatives.

Today, we each have the opportunity to either revive an old family practice or learn a new and valuable lesson of taking responsibility for our own sustenance. The valuable lesson of maintaining a healthy food culture as provided by Mother Nature is a great lesson to pass on to our future generations. It mixes the great fun of trapping, hunting, fishing, and gardening with life’s lessons of hard work, time management, and personal responsibility. Given our present economy, it is also a worthy undertaking just for the economic factors. Considering only utilization the meat and fish harvested from trapping, hunting, and fishing our family of four (with two older boys and their families eating with us when they are home) has managed to live on a budget of approximately $200.00 per month for food. After our garden begins producing this spring we expect to cut that amount in half. Amazingly, today in this modern society advances in nutritional technology have revived the importance of the old ways of producing food and elevated those practices to a place more important than ever before. As parents it is our responsibility to provide the progeny with a healthy food culture and it starts in the Great Outdoors. It is the ‘Road less travelled.’ So says the One-eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Adventure Down Monarch Pass

In 1986, I took a career placement test in high school. The test was supposed to indicate in what arena of life your interests were most contained. I was expecting a cut and dried result indicating to me what occupation in life I should pursue, such as surveyor, carpenter, or law enforcement officer, etc. However, my result showed my highest aptitude was simply “adventure.” I’m not kidding, the report listed “adventure”, and I still have the copy of test’s results to prove it. I had never seen a job listed as an ‘adventurer’ and I really didn’t know what to make of the result. Right out of high school it was impossible for me to understand that elk hunting Colorado, halibut fishing Kodiak Island, Alaska, pheasant hunting South Dakota, or fur trapping the Meramec River right here in Missouri were all considered, by some, extreme ‘adventure.’ I assumed those were activities everyone wanted to pursue all the time. Only after I got much older did I begin to realize maybe I had a much more severe case of the outdoor adventure bug than most folks. Seems I couldn’t concentrate on a ‘normal’ job during any hunting, fishing, trapping, or foraging season (I once quit a job because they wouldn’t let me off for opening weekend of deer season…you know, priorities and all!) Also seems that when you are afflicted with this bug, you get into some very unwanted and unintended adventures as well.

Case in point - I signed on to my first elk hunting expedition in October 1993. Ellis Floyd and I were going to meet up with several hunters in Crested Butte, Colorado, the Thursday before opening day of Colorado’s third elk season. The plan was to leave Springfield, Missouri at 5:00 am Thursday morning and get into Gunnison, Colorado to rendezvous with the others by 10:00 pm that night. Much like real life trapping, hunting, and fishing scenarios themselves, if there is one thing I have learned over the past 20 years about long trips abroad to trap, hunt, or fish, it is that nothing ever goes exactly as planned. And this trip was going to be one, much like those of the lone fur trappers in the 1820’s, in which the characteristics of flexibility and adaptation would carry the day.

Needless to say we didn’t leave anywhere close to on time. After delays for working late and getting packed even later, we finally left Missouri at 8:00 pm on Thursday night, only 13 hours behind schedule on the first day – no sweat! By the time we reached the Missouri – Kansas border we were already sleepy and we had 14 hours to go. We made a fuel stop and stocked up on caffeine for the long haul across Kansas at night. I learned a lesson that night. Too much nicotine and caffeine will give you a round of heartburn you will never forget.

About 8 hours across Kansas the truck overheated with a stuck thermostat. Now Kansas on Highway 50 at night in late October is very windy and very cold. And, not many people stop to help you at 4:00 am with out-of-state tags. Using a flashlight low on batteries, we attempted to beat and bang on the thermostat housing with a wrench in hopes of breaking it loose. We finally gave up and retreated from the freezing wind into the heatless cab. Sometime after we fell asleep the thermostat broke loose with a loud ‘bang’, waking us up and we were once again on our way. Now 15 hours behind schedule, we were eating Rolaids by the handfuls and fighting sleep in a desperate attempt to get to Crested Butte in time to hunt opening day.

The first time you watch the sun come up over the mountains, no matter how exhausted you are, the soul awakens in a new birth of life. For the mountain man types it is a scene and experience that burns a memory into your mind that will forever leave you wanting more. That is just what happened to me as we rolled out of Pueblo heading west. The impression was such that all the past nights obstacles and hardships were forgotten. Little did I know our greatest adventure was still to come.

The mountains just kept getting taller as we approached the continental divide. I was awe struck with visions of Jim Bridger and Kit Carson 200 years ago making their way through the snow-covered passes when we topped Monarch Pass. At just over 11,000 feet this was the highest elevation to which I had been at that time. As we started down the western side of the pass the deep, forested gorges and great rocky crags above tree line were absolutely breathtaking. I was too completely consumed in the experience to process Ellis telling me we had lost the brakes. When I finally came to my senses I saw the very concerned look on his face and I said, “What did you say?”

Ellis replied, “My foot is on the floor and we ain’t stopping.” It was almost comical because it wasn’t really a panicked tone, more of a matter of fact response. I was looking down a 2,000 ft drop just across the railing that was beautiful just a moment ago and now it was a terrifying crash scene in my mind. I told Ellis, “Pump on the brakes!”

Again in the matter of fact tone he replied, “I am.”

“Try the emergency brake,” I said.

“Already tried that,” he said.

“Pull the transmission into low gear,” I said.

“Already did that, too,” he replied.

I was getting irritated. We were about to die plunging over the side of Monarch Pass and Ellis wasn’t even excited. I had one hand on my new rifle and the other on the door handle. I had decided that if the truck went over the edge, I wasn’t going with it! As we ran down the mountain on the switchbacks, the long strait stretches were easy but the curves at the end of the switchbacks were definitely white-knuckle affairs. It seemed each time we rounded a curve we were closer to the rail. It was a little tense in the cab of the truck when the grade finally eased up on us. We were able to slowly pump the brakes for about 5 miles and we finally got stopped on a long curve with a wide shoulder. The smell of hot brakes was overwhelming and the brake shoes were glowing red-hot. Wow, what an adventure I never want to repeat!

We finally made camp at 6:30 pm the night before opening day. The hunt was great with harvests of one elk, a 6x6, and two mule deer, a 4x4 and a 4x5. However, 17 years later, I believe the real lesson for the trip was learning to enjoy the little unexpected adventures. More than the game harvested, the value for the participants was the exciting memories to be passed down to our children and friends at the campfire for our lifetimes. That is what the outdoor heritage is all about. So says the one-eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.